


sugar of lead

by erzi



Category: Natsume Yuujinchou | Natsume's Book of Friends
Genre: Ambiguous Relationships, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-07
Updated: 2019-06-07
Packaged: 2020-04-11 22:37:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19119103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/erzi/pseuds/erzi
Summary: Seiji's expression returns to a calm like still water. His thumb and forefinger take a corner of the eyepatch. "Don't you want to know the reason for this?"That's the thing. He does. He doesn't want the wild assumptions of exorcists biased by their associations or lack thereof with the Matoba clan. He needs to hear it from Seiji himself.But he could lie,a ghost whispers in Shuuichi's head.Would he lie about this, though? After wanting to speak with him and him alone? Shuuichi bites the inside of his lip because Matoba Seiji is crafted from flattery and deceit and sometimes, despite the years they have to whatever their relationship is, he cannot tell which is which.





	sugar of lead

The manor is shrouded by maples, spindly dark branches with their five-pointed red leaves resembling inhuman arms with blood-drenched hands. The trees grow so high they cover the manor's upper floor and most of the sky. Only slivers of blue peeked between leaves remind Shuuichi of the world beyond this cursed one.

His lip turns down as he joins the stream of exorcists and their shiki heading for the manor, fallen leaves crunching underfoot, murmurs of polite interest and barely concealed jealousy in the air.

The Matoba clan exerts its influence on the exorcist world with hard power – in tenacious pursuit of talent, in stony decrees – but soft power is not beneath it. The manor's parlor, furnished simplistically and elegantly, boasts portraits on the walls of clan heads past, sitting austerely for posterity. At the very front, above the clothed tables offering delicacies, hangs a scroll with the Matoba name in thick, commanding brushstrokes.

 _They don't want us to forget who's in charge here_ , Shuuichi thinks, scoffing lightly. Even those in the back pretending they are not hiding have an unhindered view of the name looming over all of them.

He surveys the room. He recognizes few; he hasn't been in the business long enough to have made friends. Besides, his reentering with the weight of his once-prominent family on his back had caused eyebrows to be raised, had made people shuffle away from him and the history he carried, so he hasn't been able to talk to many exorcists.

But there is, of course, one he can't seem to get away from. Mercifully, he doesn't sense him in the room – and Shuuichi _knows_ he can sense him when he is there, his eyes piercing like his beloved arrows. With his name high on the wall, Shuuichi's skin crawls regardless.

It's odd that the head of the Matoba clan is not here yet. Some take to gossiping about it on the floor as they wait for the talks to begin. They whisper things Shuuichi mostly agrees with, but hearing them come from strangers furrows his brow, and he's almost ready to defend the Matoba clan, but his better judgment halts him. Thankfully.

Frowning deeper, he weaves between the crowd to reach the back. He leans against the wall, staring at the inked Matoba name as if it is an insect anticipating Shuuichi's move to crush it.

He comes like a spirit, robed in white, standing behind the banister bearing his name. His presence is unannounced but felt, and silence sweeps over the room unasked. All eyes swivel to Matoba Seiji, flanked by his unnatural shiki. And those eyes focus on an eyepatch, white as his clothing, covering his right eye.

Seiji does not acknowledge the questioning stares. "Welcome. I trust the refreshments have been to your liking. Please follow my shiki to the adjoining room so we may begin our annual exchange of information."

The shiki flit to a set of doors on the ground floor, which they open soundlessly. Attendees glance between them and Seiji, wondering if that was really all he had to say.

 _Of course it was_ , Shuuichi thinks, following the crowd to the meeting room. Seiji only speaks what is needed, never wasting a word. But many here have not known this Matoba head as long or as closely as he has. They cannot dissect his speeches and silences like Shuuichi can.

Better them.

In the time since the last meeting, Shuuichi had learned much of what it meant to be an exorcist – but nothing he'd learned would be new to the veterans in attendance, their grayed hair and wrinkled faces showing years of experience. And even if he'd learned something new, he doesn't know that he'd share it at a Matoba meeting. He doesn't know why _anyone_ shares anything at these meetings. Dislike of the Matoba clan isn't particularly uncommon.

It's their power, Shuuichi knows. He sits by the doors, an easier escape, curling and uncurling his fist as he pretends to be uninterested while listening to and memorizing every word. Those working for the Matoba clan have the most valuable information. It makes Shuuichi wonder what they choose to keep secret to maintain their strength.

Halfway through is a break. Exorcists exit the room, talking among themselves, shiki appearing and disappearing in thin clouds. Shuuichi is among the first to leave, and he is also, as far as he can see, the only one brusquely grabbed by the elbow and pulled aside.

"Natori-san," says the obvious Matoba lackey in a detached voice. "The master has asked to see you."

Shuuichi huffs. He tries a smile. "I don't get a break?"

The lackey is unimpressed.

He runs a hand through his hair, shoulders slackening. "Where is he?"

"Upstairs. I'll walk you."

He feels curious eyes on his back as he climbs up the stairs. Disappearing around the corner is a small mercy – small only because the person awaiting him is a fate worse than the scrutinizing eyes he'd left behind.

The lackey stops by a set of sliding doors that he opens for Shuuichi, bowing halfheartedly as he does. Shuuichi takes in a silent breath before stepping in, the door quietly sliding shut behind him.

Seiji's back is to him, outlined by the sun beyond the opened doors that lead to a balcony. His black hair, longer than last they'd seen each other, ropes down to his shoulder blades and is tied thoughtlessly in a contrasting white ribbon. A weak breeze upsets the leaves of the maples he watches and loosens strands of his hair.

"Thank you for coming to see me," Seiji tells the trees and sky.

Shuuichi crosses his arms as if it will protect him, as if it'll keep anything inside him from bursting out. "Like I had a choice."

Seiji turns, the white of his eyepatch starker yet. Shuuichi sees there is a warding character painted delicately on it. He stands a little straighter. There is something unnerving in that one-eyed gaze. There is something unnerving in knowing the last time they'd seen each other, Seiji had two terribly dark eyes to provoke him with.

Matoba Seiji guards himself like an ancient tomb, and now the cover on his eye wraps him in another secret. What does it look like, beneath the cloth?

"Please, sit," Seiji says, breaking the silence that had simmered on its own. He extricates a hand from his robe to motion Shuuichi over.

Shuuichi slowly uncrosses his arms, slowly walks to Seiji – the Seiji he thought he knew as a teenager, the Seiji he'd found in that young man's stead, the Seiji who once had two eyes and now has a warding spell that must come with a story.

 _Am I going to find a new Seiji again?_ Shuuichi wonders, sitting in front of him, mirroring his prim posture. "So," he says, needing something to fill the space between them, "why did you need to see me?"

The corner of Seiji's lip turns up shallowly. "Do I need a reason to see a friend?"

Shuuichi cannot stop the sound that comes out of his mouth, something like a laugh and a scoff. Neither can he stop the defensive words he speaks. "We're not friends."

The other corner of Seiji's mouth goes up, his smile as complete as it can be given the man whose face it graces. "Is _that_ what you tell yourself?"

"Why did you need to see me?" Shuuichi repeats, ignoring Seiji's question as much as the thumping behind his rib cage.

Seiji's expression returns to a calm like still water. His thumb and forefinger take a corner of the eyepatch. "Don't you want to know the reason for this?"

That's the thing. He does. He doesn't want the wild assumptions of exorcists biased by their associations or lack thereof with the Matoba clan. He needs to hear it from Seiji himself.

 _But he could lie_ , a ghost whispers in Shuuichi's head.

Would he lie about this, though? After wanting to speak with him and him alone? Shuuichi bites the inside of his lip because Matoba Seiji is crafted from flattery and deceit and sometimes, despite the years they have to whatever their relationship is, he cannot tell which is which. Seiji could genuinely want Shuuichi to know, as a courtesy to... old acquaintance. And it is just as likely he wants to put a lie in Shuuichi's head to further make him doubt if he knows this man at all.

He glances down at his hands, stiff on his lap. His lizard slithers across the back of his left one, wrapping its tail around his littlest finger.

He looks up, making a flippant expression to match Seiji's. "Do you _want_ me to know?"

For a moment so insignificant he might have imagined it, Seiji's expression sobers. "Yes." His smile stretches without coming close to his eye. "You're aware of the youkai that has haunted my family for generations, right?"

Shuuichi's eyes widen. "The one after your eye? Did it...?" His hand twitches, wanting to reach out and remove the eyepatch.

"A few days ago, it almost got me. It's left its mark. My eyepatch's warding spell is a precautionary measure I've added because of it. I can't take it off lest I invite more danger. Seeing from one eye is more difficult than you'd think, especially given I can see from my right. I just can't use it. I've dropped a few items already, misjudging their distance. I will have to relearn how to wield my bow." Now his face really has become solemn, all pretenses of charade put aside.

Shuuichi has drawn his bottom lip in tight enough to feel his teeth dig into it. Even Seiji is weak.

 _Even Seiji is weak_.

He curls his lips, briefly bloodless, to a terrible smile. "So even the great head of the Matoba clan has vulnerabilities," Shuuichi glibly says. "At least you look even more like a youkai now: pale skin, long hair, warding clothing. Really fits you. The youkai might mistake you for one and leave you alone, just like people do."

Seiji's face doesn't change as far as Shuuichi's eyes tell him, but the prickling at the back of his neck, the stiffness in his suddenly straightening spine, and the crackle of silence in the rapidly chilling room tell him otherwise.

"Sometimes," Seiji says, dry ice vapors in his breath, "I don't know where your real hatred of me ends and where your forced delusions start. And I don't think you do, either." He rests his cheek on his hand, movements stilted, like a wooden doll, a smile painted on him just the same. "Why do you see me as a god and then make me so imperfect, Shuuichi? Do my failures please you? Are you eager for them?"

Shuuichi holds on to his façade with grip like iron. His teeth grind against each other in his mockery of a smile. "I could say the same for you, _Matoba_." He spits out his naked surname like bitter fruit seeds. "You can't pretend to be above me when you're-" He purposefully bites his tongue. His grip _is_ like iron – strong, yes, and too brittle under pressure. His face crumbles.

"When I'm what?" Seiji asks, ever faintly, with an expectant gleam in his singular eye.

 _When you're just like me_ , Shuuichi finishes in his thoughts in a voice not quite his own, and not quite Seiji's, but something like both of their voices spun into one.

Shuuichi slouches and puts a hand to his forehead, squeezing his eyes shut, hearing the hum of his straining muscles, feeling the effort concentrate in his brow. Tired. He's so tired. "How did we get like this?" he asks, not because he needs an answer – there is none to be had – but because there are only so many years he can hold it to servitude in his head.

Seiji doesn't reply. It is what Shuuichi expected. It is not what he wanted.

He runs his hand down his face. He opens his eyes, the late afternoon's light too bright for the darkness he's just let go of, and he squints, adjusting to the change in his vision. Through those narrowed slits the world softens, and Seiji, all in white, has an expression that blurs to what seems to be regret.

Taken aback, Shuuichi widens his eyes to their fullest.

Seiji's expression is as enigmatic, as falsely friendly as ever. "Would you stay for tea?" he asks.

Shuuichi blinks. "How do I know you're not trying to poison me?"

His smile is placid. "If I wanted you dead, I would not do it in such a cowardly way. I would plunge an arrowhead to your heart myself."

Shuuichi glances at the eyepatch. He changes his posture: he crosses his legs rather brazenly, he rests an elbow on his thigh and leans into his palm, mouth half-muffled by it. "You would."

Seiji calls for a servant. One brings a small wooden table, another a teapot and two cups soon filled with tea. Shuuichi mumbles thanks; Seiji had not acknowledged their presence, as he'd kept his one-eyed gaze burning on Shuuichi the entire time.

"That was too fast." Shuuichi cradles his cup, tilting it to his lips, the drink ready to scald him. He looks at Seiji over its rim – and it isn't accusatory, it isn't distrustful. It is just a look. "You had it ready."

"If you'd refused me," Seiji says, taking his own cup, "I'd have had it by myself." He sips his tea close-eyed, staying still for a moment after. He opens his eye, smile back in place. "But what fun would that have been?"

Shuuichi raises his eyes to the ceiling and drinks, the tea smooth and hot down his throat, deep in his stomach.

"High quality, isn't it?" Seiji says. "We got it as a thank-you after ridding a tea plantation of a parasitic youkai leeching nutrients from the soil. The tea harvest recovered, and I must say the farmer was truthful about its taste. Sweet and earthy."

The eyepatch absorbs the steam rising from the tea. The eyepatch, hiding disfigurement, promoting the fear and mystery enshrouding the head of the Matoba clan.

Is that what he wanted?

 _He invited me here. He told me why. But did he tell me all his reasons why?_ Shuuichi's fingers tighten around the cup. _And why haven't I left?_

The tea's heat conducts into him, dim fire in each of his fingers.

Shuuichi sets the cup down on the table and goes around it, sitting in front of Seiji, looking evenly at the eye he can and the eye he cannot.

"Would you let me see?" he asks, meaning to sound neutral, like the answer didn't matter, but his concern slips into his question.

Neither of them move. Shuuichi is thinking about clarifying what he wants to see when Seiji puts down his tea then slides off his eyepatch with care.

The unmistakable jaggedness of a claw's incision trails from Seiji's eyebrow to the middle of his cheek. It does not bleed, but it seems ripe to; the scar is red, fresh, barely scabbing. The youkai had missed scratching his actual eye by the length of an eyelash, as the scar skips the space between upper and lower eyelids by the tiniest distance. While his eye is bloodshot, it's otherwise unharmed.

Shuuichi exhales, shakily, his own right eye wincing. The Matoba clan is cursed to this, but in this field, any and all exorcists risk their lives hunting sentient supernatural creatures who do not want to be hunted. Scars and injuries are not uncommon.

Shuuichi has never reacted like this.

He only realizes he's extended his hand toward Seiji's eye when it fills his field of vision. It's not yet touching him, though he doesn't take it away. He stays still. And he opens his mouth. "Can I-?"

"You may."

It takes a lifetime to reach Seiji. The pads of Shuuichi's fingers gingerly touch his cheek. He worries his eyebrows together. "Does it hurt?"

"I will tell you if it does."

"And the scar itself?"

"I can feel it pulsing. It's not painful anymore. Mostly uncomfortable." Seiji smiles, the skin around the torn tissue crinkling, the scar's redness angrier, and it might be the truest smile Shuuichi has seen on him yet.

He lightly cups his cheek, putting his thumb at the edge of the scar, running it alongside that crooked path. Seiji's eyes flutter closed. Shuuichi finishes tracing the scar – and he does it again, surer but no less softly.

 _How long has it been since I've touched him?_   he wonders, the sunlight falling on them reminding him of summer days in dense forests, of cotton school uniforms that would stick to their skin if they sweated, of a hand brushing his first by accident and later on purpose, of a kiss dry and sweet as the grass that hid them. Not that long ago. Another life ago. When they'd been people different than the ones here.

Shuuichi slowly takes his hand away. Seiji slowly opens his eyes.

Neither of them speak.

Seiji puts the eyepatch on, its cloth raspy against his hair before it settles into place, the faint outline of his eye behind it.

And Shuuichi leans in, unthinking, lips brushing a kiss to that sacred injury, that indomitable man. A new breeze stirs the leaves beyond the balcony, and Shuuichi uses their sound to conceal his whispered, "I'm sorry."

And Seiji somehow hears. "For the kiss? We aren't strangers to it."

"No. Your eye."

"Why?" he asks. "You have nothing to do with my family's youkai."

Shuuichi stands and turns aside, the sun nowhere as hot as Seiji's one eye on the back of his head. "Someone should say that to you," he says. He cranes his head over his shoulder, looking at the blue of the sky, at the red treetops. Never at Seiji. "Someone should feel that for you."

He walks to the door, seeing himself out, one dark unreadable eye exchanged for hundreds that can only inspect him when his own are away.

**Author's Note:**

> i was reading a toxicology book that mentioned [sugar of lead](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lead\(II\)_acetate) and my exact thought process was 'wow pretty name → it would make a good writing title → there's a metaphor in there somewhere, a sweet-tasting poison → oh FUCK it's natori and matoba'


End file.
